Shipwreck in the Sand
by cy-grl
Summary: Ichigo can't leave this shipwreck in the sand, especially because he's the one that sank it. Invasion of Hueco Mundo arc. AU - Weird snippet. Be warned.


"_**Shipwreck in the Sand"**_

___Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach.  
>Summary: Ichigo can't leave this shipwreck in the sand, especially because he's the one that sank it. Invasion of Hueco Mundo arc.<br>This is something twisted I wrote while erm.. under the influence. Could be considered AU, since I heavily altered canon events. But hey, that's why it's called fanfiction, right? If you really want to, you could technically see this as a prequel to 'Merging', but it doesn't have to be._

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><p>~<strong><br>**_  
>I didn't want to save you<br>I didn't want to save you  
>I set our house on fire<br>To watch it burn  
>But I couldn't just leave you there<em>

As I come to from the blows from Nnoitra, Tesla and Kenpachi, the first thing I become aware of is the sand in my mouth. Then the silence. The heavy tension of battles fought. The raw feeling of mourning a nameless enemy. I don't know how I manage to get up, but I do and I scan everything around me. Kenpachi is walking away, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake, with Yachiru steadily on his shoulder. I can't focus. I don't see Orihime. Where are Ishida and Chad? Were they even here before? How long have I been out? Nel is there, in her child form, staring at Nnoitra's still corpse. I manage to start walking.

I look around and I see Grimmjow's form lying in the sand. He hasn't moved from his previous position apparently, flat on his back, arms slightly spread, legs unmoving. Struck down by Nnoitra's treacherous, guilty blade. His hair is a less vibrant blue because of the dust.

I was the one who had given him the wounds with my blade. Dangerous slices, not as painful as open blasts or broken bones, but slumbering, deadly, letting out your bodily fluids freely until you fall down, leaked dry. Leeched, like water from a plant, or insides of a prey.

Grimmjow had been nearly out after the first one, a diagonal slash straight across his ribcage and abdomen. He'd panted and had fallen to the desert ground, only keeping his body upright with his one good wrist, still firmly clenched by an unharmed arm.

And then he'd gripped my blade, determinately opening the bases of his fingers and the palm of his hand. He'd growled my name, threwn it up with all his disgust and hate.

_"Kurosaki."_

Then the deep stab, powered up with my speed and will to strive, had hit him under the ribcage. No doubt had it gone straight through his diaphragm, perforating it like the skin of jello with a spoon, straight into the soft pink tissue of his spongy lungs. It has missed his heart. I can't recall if it was a conscious decision of mine or an intuitive whim because I _hate_to end lives - any life. His lung must have collapsed instantly after I had drawn back my blade. It had decreased his lung capacity dramatically. The combination of exhaustion, exertion, blood loss, the crush of defeat and the sudden hypoxia from the stab wound had sent the fierce Espada, the proud Pantera, falling towards the sand.

I had managed to catch his wrist in time. This time it was a conscious decision. There was no other Espada I had somehow felt remorse for. I had never felt a tinge of respect for their beings, the winning creations of Aizen's megalomaniacal mind. Only Grimmjow. In a manner, he had awakened a feeling of hostile brotherhood. That's why I had carefully let him land on the ground, where he'd collapsed entirely.

I'd turned away, not proud but thankful, that I had managed to defeat him without taking his life. His undead life. His hollow life. At that moment I had thought that then, I should've gotten out of Hueco Mundo, now that Orihime had been saved.

Grimmjow sudden reappearance had startled me, shocked me. It had made me feel desperate, for I knew that Grimmjow would not back down, not give up. He could've made me kill him, easily, right then at that time.

Nnoitra had been ahead of me. The deadly blow had come from him. Demon. Espada. Wielder of Santa Teresa. Ruthless being without a soul. Killer of his own kind.

With one immensely fierce and powerful sling, he had swinged his Santa Teresa straight at Grimmjow's exposed neck. His face had changed, eyes bulging out. The skin and soft tissue, with veins and arteries and all the things alike, had violently broken from the sharp impact. With a strangled cry, Grimmjow had crashed down. His eyes then had betrayed the realization of things done. He'd been done for. Now for real. Irreversibly, like his fellow Arrancar, who he'd claimed to be so much better of. 

Now that I approach him, slowly, not being able to move well due to my hurting limbs and joints, I see that every sign of emotional shock has made place for bodily terror.

His hands shake unstoppably. His chest is heaving with exaggerated movements, trying automatically to suck in every bit of air it can, be it irregularly, futile. His diaphragm is broken so any abdominal contraction to suck in air is futile. It's all on his rib muscles and sternum. His nostrils are flared. He's coughing, but then again not really. It sounds more like small efforts to expel the blood that's undoubtedly accumulating in his chest cavity, combined with the restless inhalation of air. His blue lips tell me he's failing to compensate for his massive bleeding. There is not enough oxygen left to keep him functioning. His blue lips betray severe hypoxia. Automatically, my eyes are drawn to his fingernails. They're bluish as well.

My body is attracted to him, like it registers his physical damage, hurt in its own fragile humanity, wanting to make this pain undone.

"Grimmjow?"

I can barely hear myself. I wonder if he can. But he doesn't move, he doesn't react to my presence. A hard shake to his shoulders is the only thing that pulls him out of his stupor. His breath hitches and his hands crawl up to my forearms, gripping there. Gripping barely, with no strength left for his body to comply to his brain.

He sputters out my name, spoken vowels interrupted by his clenching chest, like he's trying to hold in a strong cough reflex.

"Kurosaki…"

That's basically all he manages to say before he fails to hold it in anymore. His body retracts inwards when it reflexively clenches together, tightening all its muscles trying to suck in air in vain. This is gasping. My father learned me during First Aid and CPR lessons. I never found them interesting, and as a young guy I hadn't seen any greater worth in them. Now I am amazed by how much I remember from them. Life threatening signs. Brutal foretellers of an ending. This is not real breathing. These are merely neurological reflexes that desperately try to keep their owner alive.

Acting on impulse I crouch on the ground next to him and put one hand behind his neck, the other against his chin. I tilt his head backwards to hyperextension to secure an optimal airway. But then he coughs, or heaves, or clenches together, or I don't know what it is, and I realize that I will never be able to secure his airway with this massive blockage inside. So I settle for grabbing his hipbone and shoulder and roll him on his side. His head lolls lazily to the side, his body follows. I take his foot and bend his knee. Then I stretch his arms a little so he remains on his side and doesn't roll over to his front.

Then it hits me.

Orihime has to get here. I don't have the power to make these things undone.

I yell her name a hundred times. There is no echo, only the vast fading of my voice in the endless distance of desert sand.

"Orihime! Soten Kisshun! Soten Kisshun!"

My voice breaks but I try a last time. "Orihime! Soten Kissh..."

There is no use. She's not here. She's not gonna show up.

Instead of wasting more time, I decide to focus completely on the remembrance of this First Aid course of my dad. _What do I do. What do I do._

There is so much blood. It sticks to my black robes. No doubt they stick to my blade as well. My blade, which was meant to kill him.

_What the hell am I doing._

There is so much blood. So much blood.

I bend over slightly and then scurry to Grimmjow's other side so I'm facing him. His eyes are almost completely closed now. He probably lost consciousness while I rolled him over. His erratic shaking hasn't receded though. He's still fighting. His instinct is fighting. He should be able to make it. My mind is reeling, trying to calculate a percentage. But I can't. If only my dad was here. He'd know what to do.

That thought makes me decide what to do, what choice to make. I have to get Grimmjow safe so someone else might be able to save him. I should get him to my dad. I have to get him to Urahara. To _Orihime_. _Soten Kisshun._

I reject this.

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><p>The end.<p>

_The title comes from a Silverstein album. So do the lyrics in the beginning._


End file.
